Precious Cargo
by Age of Edward Contest
Summary: precious cargo: something invaluable or of great importance being transported by aircraft, train, truck, etc. precious cargo: i.e. the thing Carlisle O'Cullen, mob boss of St. Louis, leaves with his son for safekeeping. 'Whatever you do, don't lose it, all right'


**PRECIOUS CARGO**

 _The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended._

…

My father was always a meticulous man. One particular memory I have of him was when he came home one evening and started playing Patsy Cline on the record player. He was dressed in a silk robe and stood in our bathroom, smoking cigarette after cigarette as he organized my mother's medicine cabinet. It drove her fucking nuts; he'd rearranged their prescription bottles in alphabetical order.

He did things like this often, anything to keep busy. I never understood it until I started adopting these little idiosyncrasies of my own. They started sometime after I joined his business, when the stress really started kicking in.

"You need help with those, man?" Mikey asked.

I was elbow-deep in the liquor bottles (not actually drunk, not yet) trying to separate the dark liquors from the clear ones.

"Leave him alone," my father defended. I heard him chuckle. "Kid's a fucking nut."

He was an asshole like that, but I could understand not wanting to give himself away by saying he struggled with the same issues I had.

I straightened and turned to the bartender, Jessica. She was cleaning tables with a dishrag when I addressed her and didn't look up until I started complaining. "This place is a fucking mess."

The guys cackled loudly and so did Jess, finding me fucking hilarious.

"Hey," I said. She stopped giggling abruptly and dropped her hand. "Don't laugh at me."

Carlisle, said father, slipped a hundred bucks Jessica's way. "Honey, why don't you stay after and clean the place up a bit? Make sure everything's spotless for tight-ass over there."

She stared at him a moment, looking lost as she glanced between us. "Y-yeah, I guess."

Believe me, I wasn't always this crazy. People like me, the ones who find themselves obsessing over little shit that other people don't notice or care about, didn't become this lost on their own. It takes a lot of time and plenty of thought to become a whack job like me.

"You guess, or you will?" Dad asked, clearly as concerned about this situation as I was. The guys stopped laughing and looked to Jessica, waiting to gauge her reaction.

Jessica didn't just get this job on a whim and she sure as fuck didn't stumble upon a 'help wanted' sign sitting in the window (we didn't hire just anybody and we definitely weren't looking to fill this position with a woman). We found Jessica when she was fourteen, working a pole in some rundown joint in Chicago. My father, being the charitable, upstanding citizen that he was, took her under his wing.

"I'll handle it," she said firmly, flitting her eyes to me. "It'll be spic and span, Mr. O'Cullen."

I shrugged, pretending I didn't give a fuck (I made a mental note to check that shit later).

"Edward, why don't you come sit with me?" Dad asked, walking back to his table where a group of guys who worked for him sat. More specifically, those he actually gave a shit about, such as James, Pete, and his new man, Charles.

We called him Little Geezer to mess with him, but if you'd actually met the guy you'd think we were nuts. This guy was in his late forties (I'll settle it now by saying he didn't look a day over thirty), a fucking ex-Navy Seal and son of Charles Swan Sr., my father's deceased rival. Senior used to be the Chicago boss but was murdered in sixty-two by one of his own, something I knew little about. Why junior came here was beyond me, but my father trusted him and that was enough.

I met them at the table, taking a seat across from my father. Jessica set a drink down in front of me and I thanked her as Pete moved to the spot beside me. "How are you doing, kid?" Pete asked, slapping a hand over my back. "You got yourself a girl yet?"

I bit my tongue, ready to ask him the same question. I'd yet to see Pete successfully settle down with someone and he was older than Little Geezer.

"Edward doesn't want to settle down, he's a little boy," my father said, pursing his lips. I grimaced. "It's the eighties; kids don't give a shit about marriage anymore." He took a drink and rubbed his fingers together. "It's all about the money."

I shrugged. My occupation meant something to me, but then again, I couldn't say I cared much about the money. I had more cash than I knew what to do with, and that was saying a lot for a twenty-four-year-old in the eighties.

"Why do I need a wife?" I replied simply.

"Why wouldn't you?" Pete retorted. "What are you a fag? You like sucking cocks or something?"

My father had interrupted before I had the chance to clock Pete in the nose, settling our dispute with one word: "Love."

Pete shook his head. "Hey, love ain't got shit to do with it. You just have to take the initiative. Go out there and find a broad you can tolerate, put a ring on her finger and it's done. Maybe that love shit will come later."

Dad threw his head back, chuckling. He pointed to Pete, his laugh hysterical and his eyes glossed with tears. "This is why he's on his third divorce." He slapped Pete on the back. "I can't get enough of this guy." He shook his head. "You're a special kind of stupid, you know that? Stop getting married and save yourself a couple grand, all right?"

Pete glared at him and we all chuckled. I took a swig of my drink and relaxed back in my chair as my father lit up a cigarette. Smoke filled the air between us and I sighed as they once again started talking.

"Why don't you boys go get yourselves a couple of drinks?" Dad asked. He nodded to me. "Give me some time alone with my son."

The guys nodded and quickly slid from the booth. Dad was finishing up his drink when I faced him again. He set his glass down and cut his eyes to me, the grimness in them setting off an internal alarm in my head. I realized then that he was only putting up a charade earlier; something was really nagging away at him.

"Come over here," he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. "You afraid of me or something? Can't sit by your ole man?"

I sighed and shifted over to the booth, sliding up next to him and taking my drink with me.

"How are you, kid? Really?" He leveled his gaze at me. "You handling shit okay? Mo—"

I interrupted him, putting an end to his concerned father façade. "I'm fine. I talked to Mom the other day, didn't she tell you?"

He shook his head, leaning back in the booth. "That woman doesn't tell me anything. I tried to get her to go to lunch with me the other day, know what she tells me?" I shook my head. " _I'm going to yoga_." He did a poor high-pitched imitation of my mother's voice and I laughed. "Crock of shit."

"She likes to keep busy."

"Hm," he trailed off, narrowing his eyes to the bar. I followed his gaze, wondering why he'd grown cold all of a sudden and noticed he'd been glaring at his men.

I flitted my eyes between them rapidly, wondering what the hell his problem was. "What?" I asked. "What is it?"

He sighed aloud and combed his fingers through his dirty blonde hair. He dropped his hand and continued to stare at the bar, dead silent again.

"You all right, Pop?" I repeated, getting desperate for answers. I laughed, nervous. "You're scaring me here."

He finally shifted his eyes to me, his eyes narrowed to slits. "You're a smart kid, so I'm going to take your word on this." He squared his shoulders as he leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Tell me, what would you do if you thought one of your friends was a backstabber?"

I shifted, already getting a feel of where this conversation was going. "I don't—"

My father didn't just suffer from a severe case of OCD—he was also a bit of a paranoid schizophrenic. He was constantly underestimating people and writing them off as thieves (disregarding the fact he, himself, was one) and liars. I hated to admit it, but nine times out of ten, he was wrong in these superstitions. The people who worked for him were loyal until the end and valued his trust; they wouldn't do anything to let him think otherwise.

"I got a tip the other day," he interrupted before I got the chance to stop his oncoming ramble.

I arched an eyebrow.

He nodded. "One of my informants, a guy on the inside; the FBI, told me. It happened right before my meet with Clearwater."

I nodded, knowing my father had a truce of sorts going with the boss in Chicago, Harry. They were good friends at this point, but knowing Carlisle, he was nothing but another problem in his book.

"So, what?" I asked, still confused as to what he was getting at. I noticed one of the guys laughing at the bar and turned to see Pete chuckling. Jessica was presently on the floor by his feet, scrubbing the hardwood with a sponge. I shook my head, ready to tell her not to clean with that when—

"We have a rat." His eyes narrowed. "Here, in my bar."

"Who?" I queried, jabbing my thumb to the bar. "One of them?"

He nodded. "Who else? None of these guys"—he gestured around himself, to the other people sitting around—"know a thing. All I know to be true is that one of my so-called friends over there is feeding everything I say and do back to the FBI and it's only a matter of time before those rats come out to bite me in the ass."

Believing he was getting out of hand, I interrupted him. "Why didn't the informant tell you who it was?"

He shrugged. "He doesn't know who it was. Atara is doing everything he can to find out, but until then we're fucked." I remembered him mentioning something about this Atara guy, someone he had inside the FBI watching his back. I didn't know how trustworthy the man was, but I couldn't think of a reason why he would lie to my father about something like this.

He sighed and shook his head vehemently. He then shot his hand out to take the glass he was holding and chucked it across the room. It hit the furthest wall, shattering to pieces before it hit the ground.

No one made a move. They stared at him expectantly, fearing his next move would be lethal. I didn't either.

I knew my father would never intentionally keep these guys around knowing one of them were a risk to us. If he were to snap in the next few minutes, there wouldn't be much I could do about it. He was the boss—the king of this organization—and he could kill every last one of us just for looking at him the wrong way. Not that he would, but it certainly wasn't unheard of that one of us lost our temper and fired a gun at someone.

Jessica was the first person to inch toward us, grabbing a broom and a dustpan to take care of the mess. I returned my eyes to Carlisle, surprised to find him considerably calm. His posture had loosened some, and his eyes were cast straight ahead and a small, yet unreadable smirk was plastered on his lips. It sent a chill down my spine, believing my father would go insane and snap on one of us at any minute.

"Rodents," he murmured through pursed lips. He met my eyes and shook his head firmly. "They never were an easy problem to eliminate. Someone will need to call the exterminator first thing in the morning."

He stood and turned his back to me. I took a deep breath, believing he was gone when I heard him mumbling on his way out, "Keep your eye out, son. They're everywhere."

.

.

.

March in St. Louis was the kind of chaos you didn't need or want to be a part of. One day in particular, which I tended to avoid as much as I could, was St. Patrick's Day. Seeing as it was the busiest day of the year for an Irish pub in St. Louis, I had no other choice but to come into O'Cullens for the night.

My father—God bless him and all—was a cheap bastard and was short-staffed ninety percent of the time. I was not technically employed by any means, but neither was anyone else who worked there. There were only two people who were actually on the payroll and then there were Jessica and Mikey, the only two scheduled to work that day.

I sent Jessica home for the day, thinking it would be a shitty day to be served a ticket because of her, and helped Mikey at the bar while the people flooded in, some close friends and regulars, but most of them were coming in from the parade. O'Cullens was located downtown, just down the street, so everyone was coming in to get their drinks.

The music roared and the people hollered, greens and oranges flashing around me in a flurry of demands and requests: "Can I get a Murphys—"

"One Mickey—"

"I was here first! Two Hein—"

Wholly unprepared for this moment, Mikey served everyone the same Budweiser we've been serving for years. I couldn't say anything at the moment and was sure none of these people could tell the difference. It was a fucked up move, but try serving sixty people the same beer and tell me how fast you run out. Unless they ordered Irish Coffee (we had a few of those) he shoved whatever their way.

Eventually, Jessica came back to take his place, something I was eternally grateful for. I felt sorry for sending her home in the first place; this girl knew what she was doing a hell of a lot better than Mikey did. She was barely eighteen and getting her job done quicker and more precisely than I'd seen him do all night.

"What are you doing here?" Mikey asked, clearly irritated that someone was able to do his job better than him. "Edward sent you home an hour ago."

"I forgot my coat," she said with a shrug. Mikey stared at her for a moment before glancing over to me, the agitation written all over his face.

I shrugged and jabbed my thumb to the patio tables. "Go out and see if they need anything."

He glared between us for a few minutes before storming off. Jessica watched him retreat and turned to me with a questioning look.

"Don't worry about it," I told her with the shake of my head. "Just do what you do best."

She hesitated for a minute before picking up and taking the next person standing there.

A few hours breezed by with Jessica and me working behind the bar, and by six in the afternoon (yeah, it was that busy this early in the morning), Pete came in to get my attention.

"Kid, there's a problem in the back."

I gave him a strange look, trying to tend to these greedy fucking customers and listen to him at the same time. "Problem? There's always a fucking problem here, take care of it."

"There's a _problem,"_ he repeated, stringing the word out low in my ear. "In the fucking back."

I finally stopped what I was doing and turned to Jessica, seeing that she had everything under control for the time being. "Keep an eye on her," I muttered protectively. "Anyone lays a hand on her—"

Pete nodded. "I got it. Go."

I walked away from them and weaseled my way through the crowd to the back. I threw the door open and kicked it closed behind me, turning to the alleyway. There I found my father standing in front of one of his vans, dressed in a blue and white tracksuit like he just ran a marathon.

I shook my head at him. "What's wrong now?"

He snapped his head to me and drew his eyebrows together in concern. "Pete send you out here? I swear that kid gets shaken up over nothing. You got some bleach in there?"

I sighed and rubbed my face between the palms of my hand, getting agitated with his bullshit. He beat around the bush as he did here too fucking often and it pissed me off. I didn't know what he was hiding from me but I knew he'd been acting strange like this all week and it drove me nuts that he couldn't just give it to me straight.

"Pop," I muttered, shaking my head as I gestured to the van. "What the hell happened?"

He shook his head and began to pace. "Don't you worry about it, kid. You're a good boy, you don't want to be a part of this"—he reached up to knock his temple with his knuckle. He then spun his forefinger around his temple—"it's all insanity up here. You should go to school, be a lawyer or something."

"I'm already going to school," I sighed out, trying to peer over his shoulder to look into the van. I saw that the passenger and driver seat were empty, which came as a good sign to me. It meant whatever the fuck he was up to, no one else knew about.

"Right. But you could still be a lawyer. I'm going to leave this here with you," he mumbled after a moment, still pacing the alleyway like a madman. "You can drive it home, right?"

I shrugged. "Depends. What's in it?"

He stopped walking then, turning to eye me. "Precious cargo." When I arched an eyebrow, he shrugged. "Something that's gonna help me exterminate the rodent issue I got. You need to take care of it until I get back, all right? Don't let anyone get their hands on it."

Determined to know what was inside, I took a step forward and he shot his hand out to stop me. "Just-just go back inside … for now, I can take care of it."

I sighed and relented. "Agent Atera finally tell you who it was?"

He looked up to me, still skittish as hell as he looked back to the van. "Yeah, he did." He pursed his lips thoughtfully and turned to me. "It won't be a problem … not for long. This may take a few days, so don't get worked up if I can't come help you with this right away."

I nodded, deciding to let it go. As long as my father stopped acting like a psycho, I would gladly agree to help with anything he deemed worthy of my time.

"Thanks, bud." He stepped forward, placing his hands on either of my shoulders. He stared at me with cold, hard eyes for a minute. "Listen closely; I need you to make a promise to me. I'm trusting you with something very important."

It felt like a kick in the gut, him bestowing that kind of trust upon me. I was nothing like my father—I'd shot a gun but once in my life and I knew nothing about running an Irish mob. I was more or less an idiot on standby, waiting for him to need me. He never had complaints and he certainly never asked me for help, not like he was doing now.

"Okay," I replied.

He stared at me for a minute. "Whatever you do, don't lose it, all right?"

Again, I didn't give this much thought before I shrugged. "Yeah, whatever. I'll take care of it. Don't worry, Dad. How hard could it be?"

The corners of his lips twitched. "A bit. Keep your Magnum on you, just in case."

I always did keep my gun with me, regardless of whatever reason. Being the son of Carlisle O' Cullen was reason enough to carry a gun around. "Yeah—" I began, not getting the chance to finish before the back door swung open.

I spun around and found Pete standing there, holding Mikey by the sleeve of his T-shirt. Mikey had a large, red blotch on his face and his eyes were watering as if he'd just been punched.

"What happened?" I asked. I couldn't have been gone more than five minutes and already Mikey and Pete were leaving Jessica alone at the bar. I sent a pointed look to Mikey. "What'd you do?"

Pete allowed him no time to respond, delivering a rough kick to his left shin. Mikey fell to the ground with a loud cry and I heard my father sighing exasperatedly as if this were a boring movie and not one of his guys getting his ass kicked.

Pete continued to then throat punch Mikey before I decided it was time to intervene. I stepped between them as a shield. "Whoa, whoa," I chanted, stopping Pete from throwing another punch. "What are you doing, ole' man?"

I heard my father laugh and Pete shook his head, wiping his blood-splattered knuckles on a handkerchief. "Ole' man?" he spurted, his thick Irish accent coming out. "I'm an ole' man? I was just doing what you asked and keeping an eye on the lady."

I furrowed my brows and looked down to Mikey. He was lying on the ground and clutching his stomach, his face twisted in pain. "You touched Jessica?"

"Shoot him," my father ordered as if he was back in the war.

I shook my head. "Whoa, wait a minute; let me figure out what the hell happened—you lost your mind? You can't just shoot people in the back of the—" I jumped as a shot fired through the alleyway, and a scream sounded.

I looked down to find Mikey weeping and clutching his arm. No blood trickled from it so I assumed the bullet had just barely grazed him.

I turned back to my father with wide eyes. "What the—"

"Go get your car, Pete," he said nonchalantly. "Esme is making corned beef and cabbage for dinner. You coming over for dinner, son?"

I stared for a minute, unable to fathom what— _when_ —he was asking me.

"Because if you are, you should probably figure out what you're going to do with the van," he murmured, trailing off thoughtfully. "Let me know if you need anything."

I gaped as he walked off with Pete trailing him, swaying from side to side in his usual swag. I shook my head to myself, for once understanding my father and his oddball behavior. He really had lost his shit; the stress of knowing someone on his crew was ratting had driven him over the edge. It wasn't hard to level with him at that moment; I just had to figure out what the hell he was up to before I tried to fix him.

I faced the wall and narrowed my eyes to Mikey. He was now crying silently on the floor, wiping snot all over his hoodie.

"What'd you do?" I asked carefully.

"I just I—I—" he stuttered, at a loss for words. "Grabbed Jessica"—he flinched at my expression—"not like that, I was trying to get her attention, and Pete grabbed me—"

I sympathized with him momentarily before shaking my head. "Keep your hands to yourself. Come on, if you play your cards right, you can come in and apologize."

I helped him stand and waited for him to clean up his nose, which I was sure was broken. Before I could ask if he needed help, he grumbled something about Jessica taking his job. I ignored him and walked away, deciding I would deal with this asshole on a different day. He could bitch about his job all he wanted, but I wouldn't let him talk down to the other employees like that. Just because he was a miserable prick didn't mean he had to make Jessica's life hell too.

I walked in to find the place relatively calm. Jessica was tending to a few patrons and the tables were packed. Everything had settled some since earlier, although the music seemed twice as loud—someone had put on a station playing the _Clash,_ which helped to put me in a better mood, since it was one of the few bands I could tolerate listening to. Music seemed to grow duller and duller each passing year and it was rare for me to find something I actually liked.

Like the obsessive-compulsive maniac that I was, I started clearing off tables regardless if they were occupied or not. I had too much on my mind and that's when my OCD really started kicking in, much to the guys' pleasure.

"Why does everything have to be perfect with you, O'Cullen?" James asked, chuckling as I fixed his placemat.

Mikey, who sat next to him holding a bloody cloth to his nose shook his head and muttered, "Leave him alone."

"This place is a pigsty, but don't let me intervene," I said, sitting down beside him. "Please, continue to sit in filth."

James laughed. "You're too much like your Pop."

I didn't respond to that, refusing to acknowledge this fact. I didn't want to believe people compared me to the nut job who just left a sketchy fucking van in the alleyway carrying 'precious cargo.' That wasn't me, not today … only I was, because _I_ was the dumb fuck who agreed to keep it.

Fuck, I was him.

.

.

.

After I had sent Jessica home for the second time that day, I spent the remainder of the night cleaning up the bar. My father's guys were still sitting around drinking and I'd yet to kick them out since Pete had shown up and could probably do it for me.

"Go home, get some rest, kid," he told me, delivering a light slap on my back. "Don't spend too much time stressin' over this shit."

"Yeah," I sighed out, looking around to ensure everything seemed up to par. The place was wiped clean and only a few casualties remained: a broken mirror over the bar (a result of a heated argument between two drunken buffoons who I did not hesitate to throw out), a few chairs misplaced, and Mikey. He sat at the bar with a dried bloody rag to his nose, watching the TV.

"Did he deserve that?" I asked, throwing my thumb to him.

Pete gave me a knowing look. "He looks at that little girl like she's a piece of meat. I just tried to get him to pull his head out of his ass."

I nodded and sighed. "I'm going to head out. He tries anything else, let me know and I'll set him straight."

I walked to the back, grabbing my coat from the rack before I headed to the alleyway. I stepped out back and dug into my pockets until I produced my rolled joint and a lighter. I set it to my lips and sparked a flame to life, feeling the stress of the day lift from my shoulders with one, strong hit.

I slouched my shoulders, already feeling at ease as I moved toward the van. It was dark out so the white van seemed all the more intimidating. Car horns blared in the distance, some _Def Leppard_ hit I wasn't interested in blasted from my time in the bar, these songs played all the time.

I slid into the van and searched for something to listen to on the radio, stopping as I recognized something I could tolerate. I reached over to crank up the music and _The Replacements_ blared through the van, distracting me from my frazzled nerves.

As I drove homeward, I kept a lookout for police vehicles. I had no clue what treasure my father had stored in the back of the van for safekeeping but I was positive I didn't want to get busted with it.

The parking lot at my apartment was mostly empty when I pulled up. I parked the van in the closest vacant spot and pulled off my coat, preparing for some heavy lifting if needed.

It wasn't the first time I had to do something ridiculous and (probably) highly illegal for my father. Being that he was as trusting as a paranoid schizophrenic (which he without a doubt was), I often found myself smack-dab in the middle of his shenanigans. He trusted me over anyone else and I respected that, even when he was losing his mind, I would be loyal to him.

I stepped around the van, rubbing my hands together before I reached for the door handles. I took a deep breath before I opened it, nervy and unsure of what—

I gave it no more thought, simply popping the door open to reveal what was on the other side.

Almost as soon as I'd opened it, I closed it. My heart seemed to explode in my chest, my eyes growing wide in panic and horror. I stepped away as if it were a bomb getting ready to explode (spoiler alert: there were no explosives inside).

I fisted my hands in my hair, my heart beating so fast I was sure it would implode. I blinked rapidly, not believing my eyes.

 _Was that …?_

"No," I said aloud, shaking my head firmly.

 _That was a …?_

"Jesus Christ," I whispered under my breath. I pulled the Magnum from my waistband and walked back over to the door, using it to nudge it open. I peered inside and my eyes fell back upon the sight—that sight.

Chocolate brown tresses covered crème colored skin, some stuck beneath the tape sealed over her jaw. Her eyes were closed and I found mine were drawn to her eyelashes, their darkness and depth. I swallowed thickly and took a step back, becoming one with my panic at that moment.

 _A fucking—_

"Who the hell are you?" I whispered, never hating my father more than I did at this moment. This poor girl had been trapped in my van all night long, tied up, restrained by thick roped connecting her wrists and ankles.

Her eyes shot open and revealed to me a set of shadowy, penny-colored irises. I stilled, staring back into her willowy eyes, gaping at her wordlessly.

I was partially mortified, in the back of my mind questioning everything I knew about my father. I knew he was a thief, a criminal — he had no morals; he was the king of the fucking Irish Mafia. He practically ran St. Louis and could get away with virtually anything he wanted.

I never, however, _never_ would've pegged him as the type to kidnap an innocent girl.

What the fuck was he planning to do with her?

I also wondered who she was, who she belonged to. Part of me wanted to find out immediately and return her there, but I also knew it to be a fruitless venture. He would discover her location no sooner than I could put her back where she came from.

I stepped forward and stopped as soon as she cowered away. Her eyes widened in terror, probably scared to hell of what I would do next. I immediately withdrew and reached for the hair again (mine, not the girl's) tugging at it pointlessly.

I had to do something to console her, assure her I wouldn't hurt her.

"Jesus," I murmured to myself, shaking my head vehemently. Her eyes, those large doe eyes, grew impossibly wider as she struggled to back away from me. Instinctively I threw my hands out in what was meant to be a reassuring motion but only proved to make her fear me more. She cried out, the sound being muffled by the tape covering her mouth.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," I assured her, but it came out as a nervous mutter. I shook my head to myself as the girl struggled some more. "Look, I'm not gonna hurt you, but you gotta calm down."

Her eyes shot to mine and I swore I saw a fire ignite in them, incredulity flashing across her face. She looked as if she was going to say something and I couldn't help but wonder what she wanted.

We stood there, staring at each other.

I contemplated what I might do next, trying to determine what my best course of action might be. I thought about closing the van up again and calling my dad to give him a piece of my mind, but I didn't want to leave the girl like this, tied up and terrified.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," I repeated, although I couldn't understand why I'd make a promise like that. I couldn't control what happened to her.

I took a deep breath to steady my racing heart, never removing my eyes from hers. She'd seemed to calm down some in the few minutes we spent looking at each other — wasn't so stiff and anxious. I decided to move toward her again, this time, careful to mind my actions.

I hesitated momentarily before climbing into the van. I dropped to my knees beside her, crouching over and reaching down to touch the ropes attached to her wrists. They weren't too tight — whoever had done it had been thoughtful enough not to hurt her in the process of restraining her. I sighed and closed the door behind myself.

I turned back to her, seeing she'd curled herself into a ball in the second I'd looked away. I moved back over and found myself touching the tape.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" I muttered, running my fingers across the tape. I looked to her eyes to find them curious, following the path my fingers were taking. "If I take this off, are you going to scream?"

She met my eyes with her own widened ones, shaking her head quickly.

I nodded. "Okay … this might hurt. I'll make it quick."

She squeezed her eyes closed as I peeled a piece from the corner of her mouth, tugging it from her lips in one swift movement. A soft yelp escaped her, which she quickly recoiled and slammed her mouth closed.

"Sorry," I said, not understanding why I was so sympathetic toward her. My father had a reason for taking this girl — this _precious cargo_ — and locking her away. Surely she did something to deserve it, right?

She licked her bloodied lips and took a shaky breath. Unresisting my curiosity, I stuck my hand out to move the wispy hairs clinging to the side of her face. Much to my surprise, she didn't flinch, only watched my movement curiously.

I repeated my earlier words. "Who are you?"

"Me?" she repeated, furrowing her eyebrows. "Who the hell are you, Rolling Stones?"

Confused, I stared at her for a minute. Glancing downward, I then realized she was referring to my T-shirt. I cracked a smile at her; partly relieved she could clearly read and had a sense of humor. All of the above were good signs; I just needed to get on her good side.

I recognized that sense of humor then, noting that dry and sarcastic tone was all-too familiar. I stared at her as my brain pieced it together, the realization that precious cargo had something in common with someone I knew.

"You related to Little Geezer?" I blurted unthinkingly. The girl's eyebrows drew together in confusion.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked. "You don't even know who I am?"

I froze, realizing I'd been caught making the connection. I decided to keep my mouth closed until I found out the whole truth. I definitely knew I was keeping this girl for my father's advantage. She was his bait … and may or may not be related to Little Geezer, the rodent Carlisle had been sniffing out.

I caught her grimacing and found myself mimicking her, realizing she had to be uncomfortable as hell tied up like that.

"I'm going to take you out of here, but you have to make me a promise."

Doe eyes blinked rapidly at me, on edge but curious at the same time.

"I'll untie you, but I don't want any funny business. You gotta be dead silent, not a fucking peep. One word out of your mouth and you won't be speaking again for a long time, are we clear?"

She seemed taken aback by my sudden mood change, not that I could blame her. I wasn't in the mood to play around and I certainly wasn't going to take any shit from this girl, no matter who her father was. She was bait and nothing else, or so I told myself. She meant nothing to me, and that's how it was supposed to be. Precious cargo didn't mean a damn thing as far as I was concerned.

Now I just had to figure out what made her so fucking precious.

.

.

.

She kept her promise to me and stayed quiet on the walk up to my apartment. I couldn't help feeling disappointed at this. She was so complacent, so willing. Where was her self-preservation?

I could tell it was difficult for her to climb the stairs with her legs being tied up as long as they were, so I muttered a fair warning before I picked her up and carried her the rest of the way. She let out a small cry, not a protest, but a whimper in pain.

"You hurt?" I asked stupidly, to which she'd stubbornly shook her head no. I sighed and continued to carry her into my apartment. I didn't let her down until we reached the living room, where I set her on the couch. I ambled over to the kitchenette in the corner, keeping my eye on precious cargo in my periphery.

"Drink this," I ordered, handing her a carton of orange juice from the fridge. She stared at me blankly, once again looking almost annoyed, but didn't protest. Finally, she accepted it and popped the lid open, tilting it back to take a swig. "I don't have any cups," I muttered apologetically.

I'm not the most observant person in the world, although I could've sworn that at the moment, there was nothing in the world that caught my attention quite like this girl. For the briefest second, my eyes fooled me and I swore I saw the corners of her lips twitch.

Keeping an eye on precious cargo, I picked up the phone and entered my father's number, listening to it ring a few times.

"Hello?" My father didn't answer. I groaned.

"Let me talk to C," I muttered, noticing the girl had stiffened in her seat some. She was listening to me, trying to eavesdrop on my conversation.

Pete sighed. "He's not here, Ed."

I shook my head. "What the fuck does that mean? I called his house, what are _you_ doing there?"

"He's taking care of some things," he replied calmly. "I'm helping your mother bake cookies while he's out. Did you need something?"

"Yeah," I replied evenly, trying to keep my cool in front of the hostage. "I need someone to tell me what the hell is going on."

I heard Pete sigh, which only served to aggravate me even more. I was clutching onto the phone, seconds away from throwing it against the wall. "I know, man," Pete mumbled. "I'm happy you met a Navy Seal's daughter, but he's not going to be happy when he comes back from New York and finds you with her."

"Why New York?" I whispered. "What the fuck is going on there?"

"Yeah, your father is on his way there too. Maybe they'll meet up and have a chat, try to work things out."

I shook my head. "You're making no sense."

"I gotta go, kid. The cookies are going to burn and your mother is watching Jeopardy. Make sure you don't let that one go, you meet a girl like that and you keep her."

I could hear my mother questioning in the background. "He met a girl?"

The line went dead and I groaned, letting my head fall against the wall in a fit of distress. I was having a panic attack inside, thinking of all the crazy things he had planned for her. I heard the girl sighing and dropped the phone back on its hook before turning to her.

Arms folded over her flat stomach, slim legs stretched out before her, precious cargo had made herself as comfortable as a captive could be. It threw me off how quickly she'd settled in, a look of boredom replacing the previous one of terror.

I shook my head.

No doubt, she was a kid. She didn't look a day over seventeen, give or take a year. I wanted to inquire her age but deemed it a bad idea. I couldn't pick what seemed worse, the possibility of her refusing to acknowledge me or her actually answering and me liking it.

For the hundredth time that night, my hands went straight to my hair, my wild eyes met with unsettling pennies. Her frowning lips persuaded me to step forward, feeling an undiluted need to reassure her that everything was going to be okay.

I reached her side and sat down, pulling out a cigarette to calm my nerves. I sparked a match to light it, stopping just before I did to offer the pack to her. After a moment of looking between the cigarettes and me, she extended a hand and took one between delicate painted black fingernails.

I smoked in silence, watching her curiously in my periphery. Black streaks of makeup covered her tearstained cheeks, her curls splayed messily over her shoulders and back as if she'd been through hell (as I suspected she had). After a moment, a grumble of my stomach disturbed my observation and I glanced over to find her staring at me.

I sighed. "You hungry?"

.

.

.

Slender arms were outstretched over the arm of my couch, pale skin glimmering in the morning sunlight. Those strange, black painted fingernails revealed glitter in this new lighting as she began wiggling them, stirring from a heavy slumber.

The previous evening I slept by the phone, on the floor. I woke sporadically throughout the night to send my father a phone call, which went ignored, and to check on precious cargo. The latter slept on my couch after we ate.

I woke to a soft knocking sound on my door and reached for my Magnum, jumping as the girl sat up abruptly. She spotted the gun in my hand and gasped, curling into a ball at the corner.

"Relax," I said, keeping my tone low and even. "I won't let anything happen to you."

 _Again, making promises I probably can't even fucking keep._

She nodded, though, just as trusting with me as she'd been the night before. I moved off the floor and stepped over to the door, checking the peephole to discover Pete standing at the other side. I sighed and unlocked it, keeping the gun in hand just in case.

Pete stepped in and the girl stilled, evidently recognizing him immediately.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice shaking. "I didn't do anything—"

Pete faced me wearing an incredulous expression. "You untied her?" he whispered low, not intended for her to hear. "What the hell is she doing up here?"

I ground my teeth in irritation. "Exactly," I replied. "What the hell _is_ she doing here?"

He glared. "I'm not at liberty to say at the moment."

I shook my head. "Do I look like a prison guard to you? Do I have _'inmate service'_ written on my fucking forehead? When he told me to take care of precious cargo, I figured you crazy fucks would've pulled off a heist, not a kidnapping."

I noticed the girl was frozen, clearly upset by my sharp tone.

Pete cleared his throat. He leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "She won't be here much longer, just keep her with you and don't let her out of your sight. If you fuck this up, you're fucking with your father's plan."

"Plan? She's a human bein—"

"She's an asset."

"I don't care what she's worth, she isn't my problem. How old is she?"

"Eighteen and important. Keep your head on, kid. She won't be with you much longer."

I dropped my gaze and sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. I had no idea what that meant, but it set my nerves on edge. I still had no idea what they were planning to do with her, but I couldn't imagine her walking out of here unharmed, unscathed, after being held prisoner.

Pete slapped me on the back a couple times and smiled for my benefit. I wanted to ask him what they would do to her but couldn't with her watching us so closely. Despite my qualms, I nodded all was fucking well as if I wasn't panicking at the thought of them touching my precious cargo.

"Ring me if you need anything," he said, turning his back to walk out the door.

Alone once again with a girl I had no business knowing, I risked a glance in her direction, finding her at ease. The panic in her face had diminished when Pete left the room and was replaced with a curiosity that hadn't been there previously.

I was mindful of my actions as I met her side this time, not wanting to make her feel even more unsafe than she already was. I knew it was stupid—she wasn't safe, why should I make her feel like she is? I figured if it was this girl's last days, I might as well make them her best.

That thought in mind, I stopped before the couch and stared, torn between feeling protective and wanting to isolate myself so I wouldn't bond with this girl any more than I already had. It was trouble and she was weakening me—I was here playing prison guard and she was the damsel in distress.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked, surprising the hell out of me. She sat up straighter, squaring her tiny shoulders bravely. I wanted to crack a smile but resisted, finding her amusing. "Never kidnapped someone before, tough guy?"

I arched a brow, wondering if she spoke this way to the others. I couldn't imagine her like this to the guys without one of them losing their temper and clocking her.

"You talk too much," I said, shaking my head.

She sighed. "It's better than having a panic attack. I mean, if you were going to kill me you would've done it already, right?"

Although her logic was flawed, she had a point. I wondered if she'd been in this situation before.

It was then that I made the biggest mistake one could've possibly done in my predicament. I stared at her for a moment, the curiosity overpowering the logic as I neared her. "What's your name?"

Unworldly eyes danced between mine, teasing and yet permanently on edge. She pressed her thin lips together and shrugged as if it didn't matter that she was sharing the most important part of her with me.

"Bella."

.

.

.

"Two large pepperoni."

"You want wings with those?"

I looked at the girl. "Maybe. Yeah."

"Any drinks?"

"What do you got?"

"Coke, Cherry Coke, and Diet Coke."

"Coke."

"Anything for dessert?"

"No. Maybe. No."

I hung up the phone and walked back to the couch, taking a seat in front of Bella. She sat on the floor with her legs crossed and folded beneath her.

I realized something and straightened. "What size are you? Small?"

She looked back at me and shook her head. "I don't know."

"Of course, you don't." I sighed and stood up, walking into the next room. I reached my dresser and opened the drawers to fish out a pair of sweats, figuring she could cuff them or something. I located a plain white tee and closed the drawers, walking back in the living room, I found her standing by my record collection. She was flipping through them, her lips pursed as she read the titles.

Pushing my stalker staring tendencies to the side, I stepped forward and practically thrust the clothes into her arms. "Here."

Taken by surprise, she jumped and clutched the clothes to her chest. I waited for her to do something and go change, but she simply stood there and shifted.

"Y-you don't have much," she muttered lowly. "I mean, you have a lot of music, though. I thought you were Carlisle's kid. Shouldn't you be rich or something?"

I felt my eyes grow so wide I was sure they'd pop out of my skull. The internal panic alarm was sounding off in my head again.

She sighed. "Can I take a shower? I'm not going to try anything," she rushed out before I could decline her request. "I slept here last night without running away, didn't I?"

I gazed back at her, still on high alert from her earlier statement. Unsure how else to respond, I nodded. "Yeah."

As soon as she retired to the bathroom, I took a seat on the couch and started thinking, suddenly nervous and on edge. There was no way she didn't know who I was. I mean, she'd clearly said my father's name like they were old buddies and not someone she'd met in passing. I tried to remember if I'd met her before.

Had I?

Bella emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later dressed in my clothes. Just as I'd predicted, the sweats were huge on her, the waistline rolled several times over. The shirt, however, had been tucked and knotted to the side so it hugged her stomach, the sleeves cuffed up to her shoulders. Her hair was now damp and I wondered—the skin on my arms humming at the thought—if she'd used my brush.

She took a seat beside me and I took a deep breath to get ahold of my nerves, breathing in mint scented shampoo— _my_ shampoo—on her. It did nothing to calm me down.

"Why don't you have a TV?" she asked, turning to me. I looked up and saw she'd arched an eyebrow. "You have all this music and no TV."

I struggled to come up with an answer, once again surprised by her inquiry. Here she was, my victim, my precious cargo, my _damsel in distress_ , trapped in a strange man's (yours truly) apartment against her will. And although I'd threatened her and detained her, it was a fruitless attempt at showing her who I was and what I was capable of. She was smarter than that—than me—and knew I wouldn't hurt her.

I finally answered her, "TV rots out your brains."

She struggled not to laugh, pressing her lips together in a tight line. I wanted to ask her what was so funny, but she shot off the couch before I got the chance. I watched as she sauntered over to my record player and lifted the cover to see what was inside.

"And music?" she asked, pulling an album out from the stack as if she'd memorized where it was from the few seconds I'd caught her snooping through them. I recognized the one in her hands as _The Smiths._ "What does music do?"

I watched as she lifted the needle and exchanged the records, curious. Trying not to seem nosey, I shifted and pulled my cigarettes from my back pocket, ignoring the slight tremble in my fingers.

A knock sounded at the door as the Smiths started playing. Bella froze, cutting her eyes to mine.

"Relax," I said, wanting—needing—to reassure her. "It's just the pizza."

Her shoulders fell and she gave me a small nod, returning to her simple task. I continued to watch her as the knock grew louder, wondering how she made it look so easy. Trusting me, like it was the easiest thing in the world. She was either the best actor I'd ever seen or she really thought she was safe with me, both of which were very, very bad things.

.

.

.

Pizza boxes, cigarette ashes, and coke cans littered my glass coffee table. Normally this wouldn't fly with me, but I couldn't be bothered to care. Precious cargo had her feet propped on the arm of the couch, her bright toenails sparkling in midday sunlight. She weaved her fingers through long brunette hair, forming a braid over her shoulder.

"Do you go to school?" she asked, continuing the intricate movement with the tips of her fingers as her hair started to run out.

"Yeah," I answered unthinkingly. For the love of god, I'll never understand why the following words left my mouth: "Police Academy."

Her eyes met mine in a peculiar motion, brows knitting together and lips parting. I tensed under her gaze, like a deer caught in headlights. My heart did that skip-beat-beat thing it did whenever she acknowledged me head-on like this, my palms twitching and sweat beading on the back of my neck.

She nodded; although I could tell her eyes were now rimmed with caution.

"Which one?"

I shook my head, knowing I'd said too much already. How much more could I fuck this up? "St. Louis."

Taking one last wary look at me, she diverted her eyes to the record player, that little nodule on her throat bobbing with the movement. "So you play both sides, right?" Brown eyes cut to mine, narrowing. "The good guy and the bad guy?"

I nodded. A crease formed between her eyebrows.

I lifted an eyebrow. "You got something to tell me?"

Her eyes fell to her fingers, which were now laced together over her stomach. "I'm not really sure why I'm here, but I know who you are and that's enough."

Already knowing this, I nodded. "Who do you think I am?"

She looked up, blinking. "You're Edward O'Cullen, right? Your dad owns a bunch of businesses around St. Louis. My father used to talk about him, obsess over him even."

This didn't come as a surprise to me, as my father's name was printed in the papers every once in a while.

"You know why you're here," I stated, watching her carefully.

She sat up and nodded. The next words that left her mouth left me leaning toward her, at the edge of my seat. "My father has been working on this case for years. He never told me, but I figured it out last year. He had finally gotten to you guys. He's one of your father's soldiers." She looked to me, questioning.

I nodded. "Charles is our rat."

Her eyes fell on her hands. "He's Little Geezer, isn't he? The guy you asked about last night?"

Again, I could only nod.

"You're going to kill him, right?"

I didn't know how or what to say to that, so I reached out and took her arm in my hand to grab her attention. Her eyes shot to mine, encompassed with dread. I definitely wasn't sure what to say now, so I simply shook my head. "I don't … I don't know," I lied. "I don't know what's going to happen."

It was a lie and maybe she knew that. She was smart; surely, she could figure that out. Once Carlisle got what he wanted from him, Charlie was a dead man. There was no possible scenario I could imagine that wouldn't end in bloodshed. The only thing I couldn't figure out is what fate Bella had.

.

.

.

"How do you do that?"

The waitress set her chocolate shake down on the table and Bella thanked her. I looked at her, finding her brown eyes smoldering, gazing at me curiously.

"What?" I asked, pretending to find her observations irritating.

Her lips curved inward with a soft smile and she shrugged. "You know, play the good guy one minute, then turn around and you're the bad guy again. A villain. I can't figure out if I should trust you or not."

I shook my head. "I'm neither. Villains are crafty, smart, and vindictive. And superheroes are filled with good intentions."

"You're not filled with good intentions?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Why are you training to be a cop then?" she asked.

I quickly changed the subject. "How can you drink those things?"

She continued to ramble. "Maybe not a superhero then. Those are overrated."

I sighed, deciding to humor her. "So I'm a villain."

The corners of her lips twitched. "Until you set me free, you are."

"I don't see any restraints on you."

"But you won't let me go."

I shook my head. "We're in a diner, Bella. There's a cop standing three feet away from us." She panned her eyes to the man standing in line, waiting to pay for his order. "If you wanted to go, you could've been long gone already. The fact of the matter is you don't want to leave. You want to know where your father is."

Her eyes flit to mine, several emotions crossing them at once.

I'd finally gotten to her.

Thin lips pressed together, a small shake of her head and a sigh emitting from her lips caught me off guard. "No. I think I know what happens. Once my father realizes I'm here, he'll erase whatever evidence he had connecting Carlisle to the Irish mob. When that's done, Carlisle will probably kill him."

The hairs on my arms stood, her gaze piercing through me. My response came in a quiet whisper, "And that doesn't bother you?"

She sighed lowly, pursing his lips. "Would you believe me if I said no?"

I stared, curiously waiting for her to continue. The reason suddenly became clear to me why she was so calm the last twenty-four hours. She knew this day was coming all along, where she'd find herself in a situation like this because of him—her own father, anticipating his death.

"I never really knew him until last year, you know? He was transferred to St. Louis from Chicago. He had just done this huge mob bust and was about to be rewarded for it when he requested to come here instead. My mom always told me this would happen. She said it was a matter of time before he got himself killed."

"You believed her?"

She nodded. "I told you, he was obsessed. My earliest memories of him were walking into his office and finding pictures of your family on the wall. He was out to get him. He wanted to put Carlisle O'Cullen behind bars. It was … sick."

I gazed at her, still trying to let all this information sink in. I wanted to ask her why—what made Charles so obsessed with Carlisle. "And what about you?" I asked carefully. "What do you think of us?"

She blinked at me several times, stiffening. "I-I think you're human beings. Not one person is ever perfect; we're all just side effects of the environment we were born into. If you want to be a police officer to compensate for being born into the mob, do it."

I smirked at her, thinking she had no idea. Maybe one day, if she made it out of this alive, I'd tell her the truth.

Probably fucking not.

"What are you, a fucking therapist?" I asked, making her laugh.

"No, my mom said that. I'm a waitress. Shrinks are smart—and I can't even read a page of a book without falling asleep."

I smirked. "Me either."

I continued to watch her, the curiosity that once ate away at me replaced with an inexplicable feeling of enamor. I knew it was dangerous, taking a liking to the victim. Still, there I sat, gazing at her like she'd become the most important thing to me at that very moment. I wanted to push it down, wanted to hate her for knowing her father played a part in corrupting Carlisle, but I couldn't convince myself that it was her fault. None of this was her fault.

The harder I tried to convince myself, the less I cared who she was. She was just a girl. My precious cargo. A damsel in distress girl who ordered malt shakes and had cherry red toenails, and cared more about my music than the reason for my kidnapping her. She didn't mean a thing to me.

Not a fucking thing.

.

.

.

" _Duran Duran_?"

"My cousin gave it to me."

"So you don't like them?"

"I didn't say that."

"All your music is old. _Pink Floyd?"_ I nodded and watched as she slipped the record into place, lowering the needle to the disc. The beginning of _Wish You Were Here_ sounded through the apartment and she turned to me, twisting the corners of her lips with a smirk. "You know, there is such a thing as a CD. It's less trouble and doesn't take as long."

I played dumb. "CDs?"

Her smile widened. "You're old school."

I shook my head. "It doesn't sound the same," I explained. "The music you hear on your little compact discs or whatever the fuck it is—it's not the same."

She finally plopped down on the couch beside me. "But it's so much easier. You just put the disc in and press play. Is all that work worth it? Even a cassette player would be more straightforward than that."

I shook my head. "You don't understand. It's not the same—isn't worth it unless it sounds real." I pursed my lips. "How did you find my music so fast?"

She lifted an eyebrow. "Seriously? You have all your albums organized by year, then alphabetical order."

I chuckled—actually _laughed_ aloud—for the first time at something she said. I wasn't embarrassed about that, but it didn't escape me that she'd actually noticed. Most people thought I was a neat freak, but they didn't catch onto the little shit around here that keeps me sane.

"Don't worry," she continued. "I'm not freaked out. That isn't the scariest thing about you."

I lifted an eyebrow, curious. "What's the scariest thing about me?"

Pulling a thin bottom lip between her teeth, she gazed at me wearily, as if she were afraid to answer.

"Honestly," she whispered heedfully, reaching a hand out toward my face. Touching the tips of her fingers to my lips, my stomach coiled, feeling the warmth of her skin near mine. Wanting to shout, to move away, to overreact, I caught her by her wrist, tightening my hand around in warning. My eyes told her what I couldn't at that moment, what she needed to stop doing. That I struggled enough as it was to pretend I didn't give a shit about her, let alone that I was attracted to her.

Despite my sorry attempt at a protest, she continued to trace the outline of my frown. "This," she whispered sadly, locking eyes with me.

The phone rang and she jumped, pulling her hand back. She cleared her throat. "Do you have a change of clothes? I've been wearing these all day."

I nodded and took a deep breath, ignoring my racing heart. "Yeah, go pick something out from my dresser."

She quickly hopped off the couch and walked from the room. I looked at the phone, my stomach caving at the thought of who was on the other end.

I knew I couldn't avoid him forever, that eventually my karma would come back to collect his cargo.

Breathing quietly, I picked up the phone, but my heart was caving at the thought of having to put her back where she belonged. Worse than that, it pounded on the way down, thinking he might have _other_ plans for her.

"Edward." It was him. My heart stopped.

It picked up beating again before I licked my lips. "Yeah?"

"You still have that pretty gift I gave you the other day?" He was home. I could hear my mother babbling in the background.

I clenched my teeth. "Yeah, Pop."

I could hear him sighing. "Well, she isn't needed any longer. The operation was a bust. Our rat failed to cooperate. Exterminators probably threw him to the bottom of the East River."

I bit harder, the ache radiating throughout my jaw. "Why was precious cargo necessary?"

He hummed. "Figured if he knew his daughter's life was in danger, he'd want to change some things. Maybe we could've used him to our advantage."

"He didn't …"

"No. Turns out he didn't give a damn what happened to her. Geezer thought I put out a hit on his father. Wanted justice or some shit." He chuckled.

"Did you?"

"Does it matter? That was twenty years ago."

I shifted. "And what about Bella?"

"Bella?" he asked. "She told you her name?"

I didn't respond.

Carlisle would never know just how much of a gift she really was. Bella wasn't his precious cargo; he couldn't have cared less what happened to her after. She meant as much to him now as she did then, which meant she could be wasted.

"What are you going to do with her?" I asked, trying to control the slight tremble in my voice. My body was alive with anxiety—adrenaline pumping through my arms and legs.

He was silent for a few moments. "We have to have this conversation right this minute?"

It occurred to me then that he wouldn't say outright what he had planned for a reason. He already knew.

"Let me take care of it," I whispered, although keeping my voice strong with conviction. "I can—"

"Are you kidding me?" he asked, cutting me off with a laugh. "You've lost your mind, kid. I don't think so. You've done enough for me, thanks for your help."

I held back a frustrated groan, trying to hold my panic at bay. He'd lost his fucking mind and now _I_ was the crazy one.

"Just trust me on this, please," I asked, begging and pleading with him with my voice. It was growing low with desperation. "I can take care of everything, it'll be like …" I swallowed thickly. "It'll be like she never existed."

He was silent. I was ready to hang up the phone and tell Bella to run as far from St. Louis as quickly as she could. There was no getting out of this alive.

"Fine," he finally said. "I'll trust you on this, but I need you to do whatever the fuck you have to do quickly. Anyone finds out and we'll be put away for life."

I held back a sigh of relief, unwilling to allow him to believe I had feelings—felt _something—_ for this girl.

"Okay," I promised. My eyes moved to the bedroom and I caught a glimpse of Bella in the vanity mirror. She was changing into one of my academy shirts. I swallowed thickly, quickly forming a plan in my head. "I've got it. Bye."

I set the phone on its hook and walked back to the bedroom, inching open the door to find her pulling her hair out from under my shirt. She looked over her shoulder and sent me a smile, something that made my stomach spin. It was a welcoming smile—a safe-and-sound and putting-all-my-trust-in-you smile.

"What is it?" she asked, either oblivious to my distress or pretending not to notice.

I hesitated briefly, unsure how to begin, and definitely not sure how to tell her that her father was dead.

"Your mother … where does she live?"

She blinked at me, crossing her arms over her chest in confusion. "Um … Illinois. Why?"

"That's too close," I murmured, more to myself than her. I looked at her and sighed. "If you could leave right now and go anywhere you wanted, where would you choose to go?"

Her eyes narrowed, evidently taking the hint. "Um …" She took a nervous breath. "Uh, I don't know. I guess I'd want to go to California."

I laughed, again, because it was so easy to do, effortless even. Such a short, typical response. Predictable, and yet I didn't expect it coming from her.

"And St. Louis?" I asked.

She glanced at me, still seeming nervous but no longer uncertain. "There's nothing left for me here," she whispered. "So, what now? You have to take me away, or else …"

Of course, she knew. She was a fucking kid, but not stupid.

I didn't answer, seeing as she'd already figured that out for herself.

"What if …" She looked up at me, hesitating. "What if I promised not to tell anybody? About the kidnapping, whatever you did with Charlie … I don't care about any of it."

I couldn't have been more confused.

"Why wouldn't you?" I asked in disbelief. "I know you say you don't care about Charlie, I believe you, but where's the self-preservation and all that bullshit? Don't you care about what happens to you? Doesn't this scare the fuck out of you?"

I hadn't realized that I'd taken three steps toward her, unintentionally backing her against the wall. She blinked, and for a moment, I actually saw fear in her eyes.

"No," she answered in a small whisper, blinking rapidly as she stared up at me.

I furrowed my brows. "Why?"

She gazed back at me, a flash of determination crossing her eyes. "You won't hurt me … You won't let anything happen to me, Edward. I saw it the first time you saved me from the van — you're not going to let me die."

I laughed, almost bitterly. _"Saved_ you—"

Her lips pressing against mine in a feverish kiss cut me off abruptly. Taken by surprise, I stumbled back a foot, simultaneously wrapping my hand around her forearm to hold her still and keep us grounded. My lips were still glued firmly to hers, the hand on her forearm growing firmer, possessive.

My hands went straight to her hair, loving and fucking hating this at the same time. I loved the feel of her lips against mine, molten lava hot, slick and warm, and sexy as hell. I hated that I reacted just as strongly, that I had no idea whether or not she legitimately wanted this or she was doing it as a distraction.

When I pulled away, I found her opening her eyes, gazing up at me dazedly.

"You're right," I admitted, because she was. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

And I wouldn't.

She wasn't his precious cargo anymore.

She was _mine._


End file.
